Chapter VII (4)

“Believe me, George, he will _not_ let me go; never, and certainly not with _you_. I have not spoken about it before”--the red blood colored her face deeply--“but I must tell you now. Even when my mother was still living, he pursued me with his hateful caresses; I threatened to tell my mother, and he kept away for a time. But last summer he left the others at the inn one evening and came home alone; he tried to make love to me and promised to marry me. But I told him what I thought of him, and now he hates me and tries to get his revenge wherever he can.”

George grew pale to the lips and the breath struggled in his breast. “The scoundrel!” he panted. “And to think of your staying here with him! Never! You go with me, and I would like to know how he can prevent it!”

“George, beware of him! He is capable of murdering any one weaker than himself!”

“I am not afraid of him.” And George drew up his slight figure until he looked like a different man. “He attacked me from behind and unawares; but now I shall be on my guard. Let us go to him, and quietly and firmly tell him of our resolution. You will see how he gives in; for, wicked as he may be, he _must_ see that he has neither right nor power to keep you.”

She wrung her hands in despair.

“Resi, take courage!” he said very earnestly. “Will you let me go alone?” She flew to him and clasped her hands around his neck.

“Well, then”--and he gently stroked her hair--“let us go!” Together they slowly walked toward the house; she with a heart full of anguish and fear of what she knew was about to happen; he full of confidence and indomitable courage. As they crossed the threshold, they saw the foreman sitting at the table peeling potatoes. He looked almost startled, seeing them enter together, but soon his surprise changed to anger and fury.

“What do you want here, you two?” he cried, half rising and grasping the knife firmly, as if for battle.

“You discharged me,” George answered coolly, “and I am come to get my things and to tell you that Tertschka goes with me.”

The foreman made a motion as if to throw himself upon George, but involuntarily drew back again before the quiet, determined face of the latter.

“I have nothing to say to such talk,” he growled.

“You need not say anything,” said George. “Tertschka is free to come and go as she pleases.” The foreman laughed. George continued: “Now take what belongs to you, Resi,” and, turning to look for his own knapsack, “then let us go.”

The heart of the other man labored heavily. For a moment he evidently did not know what to do. Irresolutely he looked at Tertschka, who could not conceal her fear, then quick as a flash as she was going toward her trunk he rushed at her and pushed her down into the cellar through the half-open door. He locked it and put the key into his pocket. “There, that is my answer,” he stuttered, trembling all over with excitement, while he sat down at the table again, pretending to go on with his work.

This had all happened so quickly, so unexpectedly, that George did not have time to prevent it. But he controlled himself at once, and without a sign of haste, strapping the knapsack to his back, he walked leisurely toward the table where the man sat. “Let Tertschka out of the cellar!”

The hands of the foreman shook. And as George repeated his demand for the third time, vehemently, the man sprang up and clenched his fist. “Go at once--go!” he cried, “or--”

“Or what?” asked George calmly. “I am not afraid of you, though you are stronger than I am. It was easy enough to knock me down before, for I was then as defenseless as Tertschka is now, but now we stand face to face.”

The man’s color grew livid; hate, revengefulness, cowardice, struggled in his face. His fury almost choked him, and his hands shook as he stretched them out to seize something, he knew not what. George noticed all this, and his courage grew in consequence. “I advise you to give up freely what is mine,” he said, “or I will take it by force.”

At that moment some of the men entered; it was almost noon. Instinct had probably told them that something unusual was going on, and they did not wish to miss it. Their presence had a stimulating effect upon the furious man; he felt safer, and his cowardice, of which he was well aware, now grew to temerity, by reason of this very fear of detection.

“Did you hear that?” he cried, addressing the men; “this miserable fellow dares to threaten me because I locked Tertschka in so that she could not run away with him.”

“Don’t insult us,” cried George, whose blood was mounting in spite of himself. “We are two honest people. You have no right to lock up Tertschka!”

“What? I have no right? Why, the girl was brought up by me!”

“God have pity on her if she was brought up by you! I shall say no more; I will spare you before all these people!” And with that he pointed toward the men, who were watching the growing quarrel with a kind of dull pleasure.

“Listen to the dog! He will spare me, will he! Seize him and throw him out!” The men looked at each other irresolutely, but they did not move. Behind the cellar door there was an audible moaning.

“Do you see?” continued George with rising excitement, “no one thinks of laying hands on me. For the last time I tell you, set Tertschka free--or I will take the hammer to it.”

“Out, you thief! or I will send for the police!”

“Let them come,” cried George, in a passion. “Then we shall see who is in the right. They will find out why you locked Tertschka in; how you maltreated the poor girl for years, made her life miserable with your shameful proposals, and took away her hard-earned wages as well as the money her mother left to her--to say nothing of that poor woman’s death, which is on your conscience, too! And they will also discover how you treat the poor, defenseless workmen here, how you grow fat on the sweat and blood of their labor--!” George stopped. The weight and truth of these accusations filled the foreman’s cup to overflowing, and he completely lost all self-control. His face took on the color of death, foam stood on his lips, his eyes started almost out of his head, and with a cry that might have come from a wounded steer he threw himself upon George with knife swinging in air. The latter had seized the hammer, and now brought it down with a thud upon the other’s breast. The foreman swayed and fell moaning to the ground, the dark blood streaming from his mouth. For a moment there was silence; a mute, desolate horror held all present. George stood there like David by the body of Goliath.

“Resi, Resi!” he called suddenly, breaking open the cellar door with a few sharp blows. “You are free!”

“Jesu Maria!” she cried, hastening out and beating her hands together as she gazed at the dead man. “He is dead! Oh, George! George! They will take you to prison now and convict you for murder!”

“Let them; I will answer them. These people here will bear me witness that he attacked me with a knife. Go down,” addressing the men, “and tell them that the laborer George Huber has killed the foreman.”

It was some time before any one could make up his mind to go. George sat down with Tertschka in front of the house; she wept constantly. Sometimes he gently stroked her face. At last two gentlemen from the railway offices appeared and a policeman. “We will have to give him up to the authorities,” said the policeman. “He is a soldier on furlough.”

The policeman tried to comfort poor, heartbroken Tertschka, telling her that the affair would not look very black for the prisoner if the facts were reported correctly. He even allowed her to sit at his side in the post-chaise in which they were to take George to Wiener-Neustadt. So they rode out into the night, while the rain fell in torrents, and the dead man, whom they had left behind, was taken to his last resting-place.

A military prison is a prison just like any other, with the exception that those who find themselves in it carry old, tattered uniforms on their backs. One finds there soldiers of every rank and color, and as these all feel themselves members of one profession, so more peace and harmony rules among them than is apt to be the case elsewhere, especially since the maintenance of the various differences in rank results in a certain kind of order and discipline. However, a prison is, and always will be, a sad, gloomy place, and it is not to be wondered at that George did not feel easy at heart when he arrived there on that dark night. A cross-looking turnkey had locked him into a room already overcrowded and in complete darkness. There was no straw mattress ready for him, so he stretched himself out on the bare wooden floor. All about him were men sleeping, but he could not sleep. During the long, sad drive from the station his buoyant courage had begun to fail, and now doubt and worry crept into his heart. And when the morning dawned, and its pale light fell on the bare, dirty walls and unpleasant faces of his fellow prisoners, the seriousness of his situation oppressed him more and more. Not that he feared so much the result of his deed--he did not repent, he had been attacked and had only defended his life--but he saw the dead man before him, saw him lying in his blood, pale and stiff; and his warm heart, so full of sympathy for others, felt pity even for that man, and regretted sorely that all this had to come about. Unfortunately days and weeks passed without a summons to the court-room, without any indication of an investigation or trial. Added to this worry about his own future was a great anxiety with regard to Tertschka, of whose fate he knew nothing whatever, and whose companionship he missed sadly. Through the efforts of the honest policeman the poor girl had found lodgings and even work among the masons on some new building. No one who saw her carrying buckets filled with brick or mortar would have guessed that her heart was nearly breaking with sorrow and grief. In the evening, when work was finished, or on Sundays and holidays, she wandered about that part of the barracks where the prison stood, and looked up to the barred and shuttered windows, trying to catch a glimpse of George’s face somewhere. Several times she had been scolded by a sentry and driven away. In her distress she finally appealed to the guard at the gate, and begged him to tell her where George Huber was; she wanted to speak to him. They only laughed and jeered at her. One day an amiable-looking non-commissioned officer took pity on her and promised to find out where the prisoner was lodged and tell him of her wish. She herself was not allowed to speak to him without permission from the judge-advocate. It would be well for her to see that gentleman, but she must do so early in the morning; during the day he could never be found at home. The very next Sunday, then, Tertschka dressed herself in her woolen jacket and calico skirt and went early in the morning to the judge-advocate’s house, which the officer had pointed out to her. She had to wait in the hall a long time, for the gentleman was still asleep, so she was told. At last he came from his room, dressed to go out, and asked hurriedly what she wished. He scarcely listened to what she had to say, told her that permission to see prisoners could be given only in very rare cases; but she need not worry, the whole affair would soon come to a close. She went away without much comfort. Again week after week went by and no progress in poor George’s affair. To tell the truth, the judge was a gay young man, more interested in the beautiful ladies of the town than in his legal documents, and anything that concerned soldiers on furlough he particularly liked to put off as long as possible. Tertschka’s heart filled with ever-increasing anxiety; she spoke again to the amiable man who had advised her before. He considered there was nothing left for her to do but to see the Colonel of the barracks. To be sure, he was a very grave, stern man, yet he was always ready to help others. She decided to follow the officer’s advice again, and went to see the commandant. There, too, she had to wait a long time, yet not in the hall, but in a warm room. As it was a cold winter’s day, she felt grateful for this. In the next room she heard the click of sabres; some officers then stepped out and went away, looking somewhat depressed, as she thought. After a while the door opened again. A fine-looking man with a slightly gray mustache looked out, and asked in a gruff tone what she wanted. She was frightened and began to cry; then his manner changed, and he asked her kindly to come in and sit down. He listened in silence to her petition. After she had finished, he questioned her a little and made her tell the whole story. She did so in a very simple, often awkward, manner; but her warm, true heart spoke out of every word so frankly that the Colonel seemed deeply touched. Finally he laid his hand very gently on her shoulder and told her to be of good cheer; he gave his word of honor that the matter should be attended to immediately. With a load lifted from her heart she left him. The Colonel, however, walked up and down in his room, deep in thought, clicking his spurs together from time to time. At last he called an orderly and sent him with a message to the judge-advocate. He had to wait a long time before that young gentleman appeared, looking quite flushed and bowing low.

“I have been told,” began the Colonel, “that about four months ago a soldier on furlough--his name is George Huber--was brought here for court-martial.”

The judge put his hand to his brow, as if to reflect.

“Yes, yes, George Huber!--a case of manslaughter.”

“I wish to have the trial brought to a speedy end.”

“Easy enough,” the other one said, evidently quite relieved. “It is a very ordinary story. We let the man run the gantlet a few times, and the matter is settled.”

“My dear sir,” answered the Colonel, “that would be a very superficial and arbitrary mode of procedure. And I am most anxious to see this case handled with the greatest care. Allow me to remark--with all respect for your judicial knowledge and experience--that there are very exceptional circumstances involved in this case; I have convinced myself of that.” The Colonel drew his eyebrows close together at these words; the judge knew what that meant, bowed in silence and departed. He went straightway to his office, and, as he did not lack ability and quick insight, had the matter soon sifted, examined the witnesses, Tertschka among them, and the court-martial pronounced the following sentence: George Huber, soldier on furlough, of the Twelfth Regiment, is guilty of manslaughter and sentenced to one year of hard labor. Considering that there were extenuating circumstances, also that his conduct during the time of service in the army has been irreproachable, the long term of imprisonment while awaiting trial is considered punishment enough.

The young judge’s face flushed a little; but it flushed even more when he took the sentence to the Colonel for approval, and the Colonel, after reading the paper, said with a smile: “Now and then even negligence of duty may bring about good results.”

Two days later the Colonel sent for George and Tertschka. He looked at them long and silently, asked a few questions, and advised them to stay in town for the present. He would see that they found work enough to earn a living; later on they would hear from him again. After they had gone, the Colonel again walked up and down the room, as he had done the day before, clicking his spurs together from time to time. Strange thoughts were passing through his mind. Many years ago he had been deeply in love with a beautiful, fair woman, and had been very unhappy. Not that the lady rejected his love--such a disappointment his proud, young heart could have overcome--but he had been cruelly deceived in his most sacred feelings; and that had filled him with a lasting bitterness and an unnatural contempt for the whole sex, a contempt which he very plainly liked to show. He was anxious for the world to know that he did not believe in love, and now, after so long and passionately upholding this opinion in opposition to a gentle voice in his inmost heart, these two poor, half-starved people were proving to him the real existence of love, love in all its depths, devotion and tenderness, in its holiness and strength!

* * * * *

Over there, where the grizzly railroad tracks wind in and out along the banks of the rushing Mur, past green meadows and fertile fields, not far from the Castle of Ehrenhausen, which looks down from its wooded height on the town of the same name, stands a lonely little house, belonging to one of the watchmen of the railway. Back of the house is a small piece of land, planted with corn and vegetables, while in front there is a little flower garden, where mallows and sunflowers bloom, fenced in by a hedge of beans. In this house, whose peaceful charm delights all travelers, George and Tertschka have been living now as man and wife for more than fifteen years. It is scarcely necessary to say that the stern colonel assisted in settling them there. The couple look little older than they did when we first met them. Though dividing the duties of a very responsible service, they still find time and opportunity to take care of their little piece of land, of a goat, and several chickens, and to bring up two flaxen-haired children, latecomers, but very welcome, who sprout up merrily behind the bean hedge. Sometimes they have a quiet hour to themselves, when they sit down, hand in hand, on the bench before the door, and, looking out toward the setting sun, remember gladly the day when they first met on the heights of the Semmering. Again they live through the sorrows and joys of the past to the moment, the terrible moment, when a cruel fate seemed to be crushing them forever, which yet has led them at last to this peace and happiness. And if across the path of their memories a dark shadow still lingers, they call their children, that come nestling so close to their hearts and look out with their big eyes so innocently into the world as if there were never a strange and changeable fate pursuing man from generation to generation as long as he finds breath on this old earth.

FOOTNOTES:

[3] A florin is 48-1/2 cents.

[4] An Austrian kreutzer is equal to about half a cent.

THOU SHALT NOT KILL
BY LEOPOLD VON SACHER-MASOCH

_Leopold, Chevalier de Sacher-Masoch, was born in 1836 at
Lemberg, capital of Galicia, where his father was chief of
police. He died at Lindheim, Hesse, in 1895. He studied at
Prague and at the Gratz University, where later he became
professor of history._

_The success of his first romance, “A Galician Story,”
published in 1858, induced the author to resign his
professorship here, but he afterward accepted another chair at
the University at Lemberg._

_The best of his tales, most of which are short stories,
are those that present Galician life or little Russian, or
Jewish, all lighted by a graceful, keen, but amiable humor and
sympathy--a man of the world’s tolerance for all phases of
human nature._

_The word “Masochism” has been invented to characterize
a unique species of erotic character frequently found in
Sacher-Masoch’s stories._

THOU SHALT NOT KILL
BY LEOPOLD VON SACHER-MASOCH

Translated by Harriet Lieber Cohen.
Copyrighted by Harriet Lieber Cohen.

Countess Mara Barovic was the Circe, Omphale, and Semiramis of the mountainous part of Croatia.

Old and young (men, be it understood) were at her feet; and this despite the fact that she was regarded as plain-looking rather than pretty. Her ugliness, however, was the sort that strikes attention, attracts consideration, and excites interest. Moreover, she boasted a “past” that cast a halo about the present.

It was rumored that one of her lovers had “accidentally” shot her husband while out hunting, and that this accident had occurred at a time when the Count had become “embarrassing.”

Besides, she was original.

If it be true that woman is a work of art, as a celebrated poet has said, it must be borne in mind that in these days the agreeable and pleasing in art is no longer “the thing.” Cruel, unadorned truth is preferred to draped loveliness, in love as well as in art.

The Countess belonged to the type demanded by the modern school. By her two most ardent admirers, Baron Kronenfels and Mr. De Broda, she was termed respectively the iconoclast and the naturalist.

She mounted her horse like a hussar, was a dashing whip, and indulged a passionate fondness for hunting. One of her favorite pastimes was roaming field and forest in the picturesque costume of the Croatian peasant; and she could apply the horsewhip as dexterously and mercilessly to her creditors as to her refractory horses.

The fair lady was head over ears in debt. There was nothing she could longer call her own, not even the furniture in Chateau Granic, not even the false braid which adorned her well-poised little head.

The young aristocrats who danced attendance upon her ladyship explained the preference displayed by this Croatian Circe for the “wise men of the East”--as they called Kronenfels and De Broda--by the brilliant financial position of her two Jewish admirers.

Of the two, Baron Kronenfels’s noble birth rested upon the more ancient foundation, and for that reason, perhaps, he enjoyed a certain priority in the fair lady’s preference. De Broda was a mere sapling in the forest of aristocracy, having been but recently ennobled. The unfeigned adoration he displayed for his armorial bearings made him the butt of endless practical jokes. His coat-of-arms glittered wherever it could find a resting-place. It shone upon the collar of his dog; it was emblazoned on his cigarettes, made especially for him at Laferme’s.

Despite certain differences of taste, Kronenfels and De Broda were good friends, good comrades as well, for they were both officers in the Reserve. But how often does friendship stand its ground against the whispers of jealousy, especially when a woman’s favor is the prize at stake? The relationship between the two grew strained and unnatural, and they were both secretly conscious that they were walking along a path where the least deviation from the centre would result in a catastrophe.

* * * * *

The long-looked-for altercation took place one evening at the club. Wine had been flowing freely, the betting had been high. Countess Mara was the subject under discussion, and Baron Roukavina was telling an amusing story in that lady’s eventful life.

She had not paid her taxes for years, was threatened with an execution, and had been moving heaven and earth to avert the impending disgrace. She had gone to Agram, from there to Buda-Pesth, importuning ministers, seeking favor with deputies, and had actually got so far as to ask an audience of the king. She had received hopeful promises everywhere, but the danger hung heavier over her head with the passing of every hour.

At this particular juncture, Baron Meyerbach called on her, and offered to settle her troubles. Meyerbach was an intelligent fellow, with a good heart, and a purse with the proverbial open mouth; but Hungarian aristocracy could not receive him within its inner circle for the simple reason that he was a Jew.

“Have you so much influence?” asked the Countess. Her breath was almost taken away by the offer.

“Do not inquire too closely into my _modus operandi_, Countess,” said the Baron. “It must be sufficient for you to know that my success is assured.”

“And what do you ask in exchange for this service?”

“Simply this: that for the next two weeks you will take a walk with me every day for an hour in Vaitzen Street; that you will skate with me an hour in the park; and that each evening you will give me the privilege of escorting you to a different theatre.”

“And is that all?”

“All.”

The Countess yielded willingly to the Baron’s terms. At the end of the fortnight, she received a receipt in full for the payment of her taxes--thirty-two thousand florins--and Baron Meyerbach found Hungarian aristocracy ready to receive him with open arms even within its most inner of inner circles. The Countess had launched him.

The story closed in a burst of laughter, and the diplomat Meyerbach’s health was drunk repeatedly and variously.

Of all the convivial party, De Broda alone was silent. Finally, with Goethe’s words in mind, he said in a low voice: “Everybody seeks money, and everybody clings to it.”

Kronenfels flung his cards noisily on the table, looked savagely at De Broda, and said, with an ugly frown: “Do you imply by that that such a woman as Countess Mara Barovic would willingly let herself be blinded by money?”

De Broda shrugged his shoulders.

Springing from his seat, the Baron cried out, scornfully: “You are a Jew.”

For a moment, participants and listeners seemed paralyzed with astonishment; then De Broda, every nerve tingling with rage, hurled angrily back at his assailant: “You are another!”

A challenge to a duel was the result of the quarrel. Seconds were chosen on the spot, the weapons were to be pistols, and the oak forest near De Granic was to witness the affair early the following morning.

* * * * *

De Broda had gone home. He was arranging his papers in order, when Rabbi Solomon Zuckermandel walked into his sanctum.

“You are going to fight?” were the old man’s first words.

“Yes.”

“And with a Jew? No, Mr. De Broda; you can not, you dare not shoot a man! You will not do it.”

“Pardon me, Rabbi Solomon, but my knowledge is somewhat deeper than yours in affairs of honor.”

“Do you think so!” replied the old man, with an indulgent smile. “Ah, well, we shall see. You think we can wash our honor only in blood? My dear Mr. De Broda, spotless honor needs no washing; and if it has a blemish, it can not be effaced even by blood. The Baron called you a Jew. Is that an insult?”

“In the sense he attached to the word, yes.”

“Not so. Neither in that sense nor in any other. Does the name of soldier become an insult because soldiers have deserted their flag? The Jews we call to mind when the word ‘Jew’ is used in reproach are those who have forsaken their standard. They are no longer Jews. Judaism is the fear of the Lord, love of liberty, love of the family and humanity. The honor of the Jew consists not in spilling blood, but in acting uprightly and doing good.”

“You are right; but--”

“No, no. No ‘buts.’ When God in the midst of thunder and lightning gave the Tables of the Law to Moses on Mount Sinai, there were no ‘buts’; He said: ‘_Thou shalt not kill!_’ You are a Jew, Mr. De Broda. In other words: Man, thou shalt not kill!”

The young fellow turned toward the window. The rabbi should not see his emotion. But the Jewish heart was touched, and the old man who gave no thought to title and coat-of-arms had conquered the aristocrat’s pride and prejudice.

* * * * *

Midnight had struck when Rabbi Solomon reached Kronenfels’s quarters. The letter he handed the Baron from his adversary read as follows:

“Dear Sir--You have insulted me grossly in calling me a Jew
in the presence of a number of gentlemen, and have added to
the insult, as it were, by making it at a time when Mr. De
Treitschke in Berlin has spoken of the Jews as the schlamassl
[the plague of the Germans]. You are, however, an only son,
the pride of your family, and I should like to avoid our
meeting for to-morrow. You have often seen me hit the ace at a
good range; and you know as well that I am no phrase-maker. I
propose, therefore, that we shall both shoot in the air, and
that we shall mutually exchange our word of honor not to speak
of this arrangement.

“Broda.”

Kronenfels held the letter to the rabbi.

“What is to be done?” he asked, with a smile.

“Mr. De Broda has proved himself a true Jew,” responded Zuckermandel, gently. “Do not let him surpass you. Prove to him that you, too, are of a race which, boasting the most ancient civilization, is above all others from the humanitarian standpoint.”

Kronenfels wrote some hurried lines which Rabbi Solomon conveyed to Mr. De Broda before daybreak. The Baron’s answer was couched in these words:

“Dear Sir--I was about to address you when I received your note.

“I, too, should deeply regret having a mortal encounter with a
young man upon whom so many hopes are placed.

“I accept your proposition.

“Moreover, between ourselves be it said, we are Jews--in other
words, descendants of ancestors whose house is more ancient
than that of the Lichtensteins or Auerspergs, ancestors who
have transmitted to us two qualities which Mr. De Treitschke
could scarcely possess, being as it were the offshoot of a
somewhat recent civilization: and these are, repugnance to shed
blood, and the ‘rachmonni’[5] of the Jewish heart.

“Kronenfels.”

The duel took place at six o’clock in the morning, the venerable oaks of De Granic forest casting an air of solemnity over the bloodless scene. The adversaries kept their word; the pistols were discharged in the air; and the witnesses declared that honorable satisfaction had been made. As De Broda and Kronenfels were shaking hands with hearty good-will, the brushwood parted, and old Rabbi Solomon slowly approached the young men. Raising his arms in benediction, he said, and the light of happiness beamed from his eyes: “Gentlemen, you are Jews!”

FOOTNOTES:

[5] The exact translation of “rachmonni” is “merciful.” It is used as a name of God, because the Jew does not pronounce the proper name of God except in his prayers.

THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH
BY RUDOLF BAUMBACH

_Baumbach is to-day preeminent in that field of romantic short story where the earlier German writers loved to dream and weave their symbolic figures out of the threads of human nature and the colors of mysticism._

_Baumbach, born in Kranichfeld, Thuringia, in 1840, was for a time student of natural sciences at Heidelberg and other universities, but preferring the life of a traveler to that of a student of books, he spent much of his life abroad before settling down as court councilor at Meiningen._

_His first literary success was a collection of poetical tales, fresh, rich in coloring, pictures of South German folk-life, sound, true, and sympathetic, and not so deep as to submerge the outlines of the plot._

THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH
BY RUDOLF BAUMBACH

Translated by Minnie B. Hudson.
Copyright, 1891, by The Current Literature Publishing Company.

It was on the day of the summer solstice, and the glow of midday lay on the corn-fields. At times a fresh wind swept over from the mountain forest near; then the stalks bent low, and the poppies on the edge of the field scattered their delicate petals. Crickets and grasshoppers chirped in the grain, and from the blackthorn on the roadside the goldhammer once in a while let her gentle call be heard.

Through the corn-field, which extended from the valley to the mountain, walked, in the narrow path, a young woman of slender yet strong figure. She wore the customary plaited skirt, and, for protection against the sun’s rays, a red kerchief; on her left arm hung a basket, and in her right hand she carried a stone jug.

As the goldhammer in the thorn-hedge became aware of her presence he fluttered to the highest twig and called softly: “Maiden, maiden, how do you flourish?” But the bird was mistaken. The blond Greta was no maiden, but a young wife, and now was on her way to her husband, who felled wood in the forest above.

When the fair one had reached the border of the forest she stood listening, and soon the strokes of a woodman’s ax told her where to turn her steps. It was not long before she saw her husband, who felled a pine tree with mighty strokes, and, with joyful voice, she called to him.

“Remain standing where thou art,” responded he. “The tree will fall directly.” And the pine tree gave a deep sigh, bowed itself, and sank crashing to the earth.

Now Greta came nearer, and the sunburnt woodcutter took his young wife in his arms and kissed her fondly. Then she sat down on the trunk of the tree, and took the food from the basket she had brought. Here Hans laid down the bread from his hand, took his ax, and said: “I have forgotten something,” stepped in the direction of the fallen pine, and cut three crosses in the wood.

“Why dost thou that, Hans?” asked the wife.

“That was done on account of the wood-sprites,” explained the husband. “The poor creatures have a wicked enemy, who is the wild hunter. Day and night he waylays them and hunts them with his dogs. But if the pursued little women succeed in escaping to such a tree-trunk, then the wild huntsman can not harm them, because of the three crosses.”

The young wife’s eyes grew large. “Hast thou ever met a wood-sprite?” asked she, curious.

“No. They only rarely let themselves be seen. But to-day is the solstice, when they become visible.” And suddenly he called with a loud voice into the forest: “Wood-sprite, appear!”

He had only done this in order to tease his wife; but, on the holy midsummer day, one should not jest about such things.

At once a little woman, a yard high, delicate of form and very beautiful of face, stood before the pair. She wore a long white garment, and in her golden hair a spray of mistletoe.

Hans and Greta were very much frightened. They rose up hastily from their seats, and Greta made a bow, the best she could do.

“You have called me at a good time,” said the wood-sprite, and pointed with forefinger to the orb of the sun, that stood almost over her head, “and a good deed”--here the little woman pointed to the marked tree-stump--“is the other reason. Gold and silver have I not to give away, but I know of something better. Come with me; it will do you no harm, and take your jug: you will be able to make use of it.”

So she spoke and led the way. Hans shouldered his woodman’s ax, Greta took up the stone jug, and both followed the little woman. She had a walk like a duck, and Greta plucked her husband’s sleeve, pointed to the waddling little woman, and would have whispered something into his ear, but Hans laid his forefinger on her mouth. Nothing hurts a sprite more than to have a person ridicule their gait. They have feet like a duck, and therefore they wear long, flowing garments to hide them.

After a short time the three arrived at a clearing. Very old trees stood in a circle around the meadow; out of the grass arose lilies and bluebells, and great butterflies rested thereon, waving their wings to and fro. And Hans, who thought he knew the whole forest, could not remember to have ever crossed this place.

On the edge of the meadow stood a small house. The walls were covered with the bark of trees, and the roof was shingled with the scales of pine cones, and each scale was fastened down by a rose-thorn. Here the wood-sprite was at home.

She led her guests behind the house, and pointed to a spring whose water gushed silently from the black earth. Succulent coltsfoot and irises grew on its brink, and over its surface danced green and gold dragon-flies.

“That is the fountain of youth,” said the wood-sprite. “A bath in its water turns an old man into a boy and an old woman into a girl. But if one drinks the water then does it ward off old age until death. Fill your jug and carry it home. But be economical with this precious water; a drop on each Sunday is enough to keep you young. And yet again: As soon as thou, Hans, dost cast thy eye on a strange woman, or thou, Greta, on a strange man, then the water loses its virtue. That mark you. Now fill your jug and fare you well.”

So spoke the wood-sprite, refusing the thanks of the lucky couple, and went into the house. Greta filled the jug with the water of youth, and then they hastened home as quickly as they could to their cottage.

Arrived at home, Hans poured the water into a bottle and sealed it with fir resin. “For the present,” he remarked, “we do not find the water of youth necessary, and we can economize. The time will come, indeed, when we will need it.” And then they placed the bottle in the cupboard where they kept their treasures: a couple of old coins, a garnet chain on which hung a golden penny, and two silver spoons. But Greta took great care that the water lost not its virtue.

And how they did take themselves in hand! When the young forester went by the garden before the house and exchanged a greeting with Greta, as indeed had been his custom, then Greta looked not up from her vegetable-bed. And when Hans sat in the evening in “The White Stag,” and the pretty Lisi brought him wine, then he made a face like a cat during a storm; and finally he did not go any more to the inn, but remained at home with his wife. Thus the water must certainly retain its magic power.

So there passed for the young couple a year of love and happiness, when to the two came a third. In the cradle a chubby boy kicked and cried, so that the father’s heart leaped for joy. “Now,” thought he, “is the time come for us to open the bottle. What thinkest thou, Greta? A drop of the water of youth would do thee good.”

The wife agreed to the proposition, and Hans went into the room where the magic potion was preserved. With hands trembling with joy he loosed the cork and--Oh, wo, wo!--the bottle slipped from his hands, and the water of youth poured over the floor. He came near falling to the floor, he was so frightened over the misfortune. What was he to do now? His wife must on no account learn what had happened; she might die from fright.

Perhaps he could tell her later what he had done; perhaps, also, he might find the fountain of youth again (which he had certainly sought in vain), and he might replace the loss. He hastily filled a new bottle, which was just like the first, with well-water, and well-water it was also that he gave his wife.

“Ah, how it refreshes and strengthens one!” said Greta; “take a drop also, dear Hans.”

And Hans obeyed and praised the virtue of the magic potion, and from that time each one took a drop every Sunday when the church-bell was ringing. And Greta bloomed like a rose, and Hans’s veins swelled with health and strength. But he postponed the confession of his deed from day to day, for he hoped in his heart to yet find the water of youth; but roam through the forest as he would he could not discover the meadow where the wood-sprite lived.

Thus passed some years. A small maiden joined the little boy, and Frau Greta’s once round chin had become double. She herself certainly saw it not, for the mirror was not yet in existence in those days. Hans saw it, indeed, but avoided speaking of it, and redoubled his love for his portly wife.

Then there happened a misfortune. At least Greta held it to be such. As she swept the house one day the small Peter, her eldest, came upon the cupboard in which stood the bottle with the supposed water of youth and clumsily overthrew the bottle, so that it broke and the contents were spilled.

“Oh, thou gracious Heaven!” lamented the mother. “It is lucky, though, that Hans is not at home.” With trembling hands she gathered up the fragments from the floor and replaced the bottle by another, which she filled with ordinary water. “Certainly the deception will soon be found out, for now is it all over with the everlasting youth. Alas, alas!” But for the present she did not wish to tell her husband anything about it.

Again considerable time passed, and the couple lived together as on the day when the priest had joined their hands in marriage.

Each one carefully avoided letting the other know that youth was past, and each Sunday conscientiously took the magic drop.

Then it happened that one morning a gray hair remained between Hans’s fingers as he combed his hair. And he thought: “Now is the time for me to tell the truth to my wife.” With a heavy heart, he began: “Greta, it seems to me that our water of youth has lost its strength. Look there! I have found a gray hair. I am getting old.”

Greta was frightened, but composed herself, and, forcing a loud laugh, cried: “A gray hair! When I was a little girl, ten years old, I had even then a gray lock amid my hair. The like has frequently happened. Thou hast lately dressed a badger; perhaps something has happened to your hair from the fat, for badger’s fat, you know, colors the hair gray. No, dear Hans, the water has not lost its old virtue, or”--here she cast an anxious glance on him--“or perhaps thou also findest that I am growing old?”

Now Hans laughed very loudly. “Thou, old! Thou bloomest, indeed, like a peony!” And then he threw his arms about her and gave her a kiss. But when he was alone he said, with quiet thankfulness: “God be thanked! She knows not that we are getting old. Now it matters not.”

And similarly thought the wife.

On the evening of the same day the young folks of the village danced to the fiddle of a wandering musician, and no couple wheeled more merrily under the linden than Hans and Greta.

The peasant women made sarcastic remarks, to be sure; but the two heard nothing of the ridicule in their happiness.

After that it happened in the fall, as Hans with his family was eating a Martinmas goose, that Frau Greta broke a tooth. There was great lamenting, for she was so proud of her white teeth.

And when the couple were alone together the wife said, in an unsteady voice: “This misfortune would not have occurred if the water--”

But at this Hans blurted out: “You think the water is good for everything. Has it not often happened before that a child has broken out a tooth by cracking a nut? What hast thou against the excellent water? Art thou not fresh and sound as a rose? Or perhaps thou hast turned thine eyes upon another that thou mistrustest the virtue of the water?”

Then the wife laughed, wiped the tears from her cheeks, and kissed her husband so that the breath almost left him. But in the afternoon, when they sat on the stone bench before the house door and sang two-part songs about true love, the passers-by said: “The silly old people!” However, the happy ones heard them not.

So passed many years. The house had become too small for the children. They had gone forth, had married and had children of their own. The two old people were again alone, and were as dear to each other as on their wedding day; and every Sunday, when the church-bell rang, each drank a drop from the flask.

Then once again the day of the summer solstice drew near. On the evening before, Hans and Greta sat before their door and looked toward the heights where the St. John’s fire blazed, and from the distance sounded the mirth of the young fellows and maids, who stirred the fire and sprang through its flames in couples.

Then the wife said: “Dear Hans, I would like to go once more to the forest. If thou desirest it also, then will we start early in the morning. But thou must waken me early, for when the elder blossoms the young women like to sleep until the sun is high in the heavens.”

Hans agreed. On the next morning he wakened his wife, and they went together into the forest. They walked like lovers, and each gave a careful heed to the steps of the other.

When Hans cautiously jumped over the root of a tree, the wife said: “Ah, Hans, thou leapest indeed like a young kid!” and when Greta timidly stepped over a little ditch, her husband laughed and cried: “Tuck up your dress, Greta! Jump!” And then they selected an old pine tree, feasting in its shade on what Greta had brought with her.

“It was here,” said Hans, “where the wood-sprite appeared to us that day, and there yonder must lie the forest meadow with the fountain of youth. But I have never again found the meadow and the spring.”

“And, God be thanked! that has mattered not,” hastily interrupted Greta. “For our flask is still far from being empty.”

“Certainly, certainly,” nodded Hans. “But yet it would please me if we could see the good wood-sprite once again, and thank her for our good fortune. Come--let us go and seek her. Perhaps I will be as lucky to-day as formerly.”

Then they set out and went deeper into the forest, and after a quarter of an hour saw there, before their eyes, the sunny forest meadow. Lilies and bluebells bloomed in the grass, gay-colored butterflies flew to and fro, and on the edge of the forest stood also the little house, just as in years before. They went toward the house with beating hearts, and best of all, there was indeed the fountain of youth at hand, and dragon-flies, in green and gold, hovered over it.

Hans and Greta stepped to the brim of the spring. They embraced each other and stooped over the water; and from out the clear surface of the spring there confronted them two gray heads with friendly, wrinkled faces.

Then hot tears fell from the eyes of the old couple, and they stood stammering and sobbing in mutual guilt. It required a long time before it became clear to them that each had deluded and for long years had lovingly deceived the other.

“Thou hast also known that we have both grown old?” cried out Hans, joyfully.

“Of course, of course,” laughed the wife, amid tears.

“And I, also,” rejoiced old Hans. Then he took his wife and kissed her as on the day she had said “Yes” to him.

Then the forest-sprite suddenly stood before them, as if she had sprung out of the earth.

“Welcome,” said she. “You have not appeared before me for a long time. But--but,” continued the little woman, and threatened with her finger, “you have kept a bad home with the water of youth. Wrinkles and gray hair! Ah, ah! Now,” continued she again, “that is easy to remedy, and you are come at a good hour. Quick! Spring into the fountain of youth; it is not deep; dip your gray heads under; then you shall see a miracle. The bath will restore to you youthful vigor and beauty. But quick, before the sun sinks!”

Hans and Greta looked at each other. “Wilt thou?” asked the husband, in an uncertain voice.

“Never,” answered Greta, quickly. “Oh, if thou only knowest how happy I am, that at last I may be old! And, also, it would be impossible on account of our children and grandchildren. No, gracious forest-sprite, a thousand thanks for your good deed, but we remain as we are. Is it not so, Hans?”

“Yes,” nodded Hans, “we remain old. If thou couldst but know, Greta, how well your gray hair becomes you.”

“As you will,” said the wood-sprite, a little vexed. “There is no ceremony here.” So speaking, she went into the house and locked the door behind her.

But the old couple kissed each other anew. Then they stepped homeward, arm in arm, through the forest, and the midsummer sun shed a golden light upon their gray heads.

GOOD BLOOD
BY ERNST VON WILDENBRUCH

_“Few stories of cadet or student life,” says General Charles
King, “have impressed me as did ‘Das Edle Blut.’”_

_The author of “Good Blood” was born at Beirut, Syria, in
1845, his father having been Prussian Consul-General there. He
entered the Prussian cadet corps and the Potsdam preparatory
school, and after serving as officer during two wars, he
resigned from the army in 1865, and studied law, became
Referendar at the Frankfort-on-Oder Court of Appeals, Judge at
Berlin, member of the Foreign Office of the German Empire, and
Privy Councilor._

_With his “heroic songs” he was the first to give epic
treatment to the war with France. Through his series of
historical plays for the people, he became enormously popular._

_The more close and personal touch is found in his short
stories, many of which, as in “Good Blood,” deal with a
superior character in rebellion against its surroundings. This
little story, though new, is fast becoming a classic._

GOOD BLOOD
BY ERNST VON WILDENBRUCH

Translated by R. W. Howes, 3d.
Copyright, 1907, by P. F. Collier & Son.

Is it possible that there are people quite free from curiosity? People who can pass on behind any one they see gazing earnestly and intently toward some unknown object without feeling an impulse to stop, to follow the direction of the other’s eyes, to discover what odd thing he may be looking at?

For my part, if I were asked whether I counted myself among that class of cold natures, I do not know that I could honestly answer “Yes.” At any rate, there was once a moment in my life when I was not only goaded by such an impulse, but when I actually yielded to the temptation and fell into the way of any mere curiosity seeker.

The place in which it happened was in a wine-room in the old town where as Referendar[6] I was practising at court; the time was an afternoon in summer.

The wine-room, situated on the ground floor of a house in the great square which from the window one could look out upon in every direction, was at this hour nearly empty. To me this was all the more agreeable, for I have ever been a lover of solitude.

There were three of us: the fat waiter, who from a gray, dust-covered bottle was pouring out the golden-yellow Muscatel into my glass; then myself, who sat in a nook of the cozy, odd-cornered room and smacked the fragrant wine; and still another guest, who had taken his place at one of the two open windows, a tumbler of red wine lying before him on the window-sill, in his mouth a long brown, smoke-seasoned meerschaum cigar-holder, out of which he wrapped himself in a cloud of smoke.

This man, who had a long gray beard framing a ruddy face tinged bluish in places, was an old retired colonel, whom every one in town knew. He belonged to that colony of the Superannuated who had settled down in this pleasant place to wearily drag out the end of their days.